


It's Going to Rain

by Mango_Dolphin



Category: Inanimate Insanity (Web Series)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, I'm gay, One Shot, Rain, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Swearing, Writing Exercise, that's not a tag i just like being gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21614059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_Dolphin/pseuds/Mango_Dolphin
Summary: Patrons of the hotel deal with a rainy day.
Relationships: OJ / Paper (Inanimate Insanity)
Kudos: 45





	It's Going to Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the titular phrase my mom said in passing.

It’s going to rain.

Paper stands, wipes the sweat off his brow, and surveys the fruits of his labors.  _ Looks like I won’t have to worry about watering these little guys tomorrow, _ he thinks chipperly.

He started to landscape not too long after the hotel was completed, and he ended up being completely engrossed in the hobby. Something about cultivating life and seeing it grow sparked something in him—and not in a dangerous fire way. In a gentler, turning-the-lights-on kind of way.

“Looking good,” a familiar voice calls out from behind him.

OJ picks his way across the garden pavement, approaching Paper and giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. He blushes.

“Thanks,” he says, still fixated on the garden.

He had recently come across pots of lavenders and violets, and on a whim decided to purchase them. Of course, there was a little guilt in the impulse purchase, but OJ’s affirmation didn’t hurt. Now here the flowers sit, eagerly waiting a downpour.

Paper leans in to OJ’s embrace. “Sometimes I wish I could sit out here for hours,” he muses.

“Me too,” OJ responds in kind, “but maybe when there isn’t the risk of us getting absolutely drenched.”

A giggle. “Yeah, fair enough.”

Paper hated the rain. He still does, at least a little bit: all those years on Idiotic Island, weathering what the world had to throw at him, would ensure that much. Even the thought of getting wet made him flinch.

OJ, too, hated (and still hates) the rain. Not quite as traumatizing as an experience, but liquid containers like him would experience uncomfortable mood swings when diluted. Paper had heard that certain containers even experienced personality changes. He couldn’t even  _ imagine _ the sort of inner turmoil that’d cause.

“Water sucks,” OJ remarks as the two step into the building together.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paper says, “but y’know what rainy weather puts me in the mood for?”

The two stand under the doorway, looking each other directly in the eye. OJ smirks.

“And what would that be?”

“I dunno.” Paper brushes some dirt that had gotten onto OJ’s hands. He holds onto them. “Maybe we get cleaned up, get some hot chocolate, turn on the heater in my room...”

“...and watch dumb romcoms?”

It’s Paper’s turn to smirk. “You’re a smart dude.”

He gets pat on the back again. OJ chuckles. “Well, I make a mean hot chocolate.”

* * *

It’s going to rain.

The grey clouds roll like a storm overhead, because that’s what storms do. They roll above, overhead, with those grey clouds of theirs.

_ No, Pepper, that’s stupid. What a stupid way to describe the rain. _

She was caught in downtown, heels on pavement, with no umbrella to speak of. The Uber she called isn’t here yet, and she rubs her arms in nervous anticipation. Her worries are simple, cosmetic: what if her make-up runs? What if the water ruins her heels? What if the water gets into her shaker and spoils her contents?

The thought makes her shiver. And yet, she finds something inside herself long for the downpour. She’s always admired the aesthetic of the rain: the gentle drum of it against the rooftops and the windows; the drip of droplets down every surface; the breath of life it provides for the world around her.

But for now, she waits on a sidewalk, waiting for the right car to pull over. It’ll start drizzling any time now, and she can’t risk it.

_ Salt always hated the rain _ , Pepper muses to herself. Her BCFF cares about the rain just as much as she does, she’s convinced. Salt always thought parasols were cute, but always refused to go out in the rain. In fact, that was why Pepper was here.

“It’s going to rain,” Salt said, on that hotel couch. She looked away, out through the window. “I don’t wanna, like, have the rain ruin my make-up and make me look homeless.”

“Me neither,” Pepper replied with a scoff. “I don’t want the rain to, like, bother me or whatever.”

“But you’re still gonna buy the stuff, right?”

“Of course,” she said.

The stuff—coconut flour, powdered sugar, and other baking needs—sat next to her in a bag. She fiddles with the bag so that rain can’t get onto the packaging.

The Uber is still not here.

Her mom always loved the rain. Of course, Pepper doesn’t remember her mom that well, but the memories she had of her were pleasant despite their fuzziness.

“It’s going to rain,” she remembers her saying. “The sky is going to feed all of the plants with yummy, yummy water. The rain is very important.”

Her mother cradles the young Pepper in her arms. They’re looking out the window of their home, and in the horizon, grey clouds roll over overgrown fields.

“I like plants,” Pepper remarked, “I like flowers. I like when they’re purple.”

They sat there, watching as the storm came closer. Pepper placed her small, small hand on the glass.

“Could I be the rain?” she suddenly asked.

Her mom laughed. “Well, I don’t see why not. I’m sure the plants and the flowers would love to have you taking care of them.”

A poke, square on her daughter’s forehead. “Plus, you’re just like a raincloud! Grey, filled with good things, and very important.”

Pepper laughed at that.

Now, as she waits on the sidewalk, thinking about her mother and about Salt and about the rain, she doesn’t know what to feel.

_ I am the rain _ , Pepper remarks to herself, looking up to the sky of burgeoning storm clouds.

_ That’s pretty stupid _ , she responds.

* * *

It’s going to rain.

Tissues is holed up in his room, absolutely covered in wool blankets. His bed is the closest to the window, and so, from a gap in the blankets, he peers outside. From that spot, he sees Paper gardening, and OJ approaching him. After a bit, they turn around and head inside—and away from Tissues’ window.

“Looks like Paper’s done,” Tissues says with a sniffle. Trophy doesn’t respond, instead taking a sip from his cup of hot cocoa.

He had prepared two cups: one for him, one for Tissues. He didn’t  _ want _ to make a cup for Tissues, and he had insisted that Trophy didn’t  _ need _ to, but the sack of sick was aching like a bitch not even a week before. The impending rain always agitated Tissues’ joints. Whatever his  _ condishawn _ was, Trophy just didn’t want to bother catching it.

So a nice, warm cup for the cozy little bastard. Plus, he made a mean hot cocoa.

“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Tissues pipes up from his blanket pile.

“Hot  _ cocoa _ ,” Trophy corrects.

“Still,” he continues in his nasally, drawn-out voice, “it’s much better than OJ’s. He keeps putting orange rinds into it, and it’s kinda gross.” He punctuates the statement with a sneeze.

Trophy narrows his eyes, shakes his head. “The only drinks he should be allowed to make are fruit-based ones.” A sip. “I wonder what his cocktails would taste like.”

“I thought you couldn’t drink.”

“Not yet.” Trophy places the hot cocoa on his bedside, and stands up. Tissues reaches for his mug—Trophy has to nudge it closer to him—and nurses it close to himself.

He knows that Trophy had something planned today with friends. Something about a get-together: Trophy would often complain and bemoan to him, muttering about how Salt got the wrong ingredients, how Cheesy kept sneaking pieces from Soap’s baking, how Pickle kept inviting Knife… Tissues was never really able to catch onto what  _ specifically _ they were planning, but it was about the same time his joints started to ache again.

“Yeah, so I’m gonna meet up with the chucklefucks now,” Trophy says, stretching his arms out and picking up his canvas bag. “Don’t sneeze yourself to death.”

“I will.” Tissues anticipates his sneeze this time, putting his cup on a solid surface first.

“Fuck you,” Trophy replies. He walks out the door.

Silence.

It’s a comfortable silence, at least. The rustling of the blankets, the sip of his drink… it’s soothing, the gentle warmth. Tissues looks outside, past the garden, beneath the rolling grey clouds, towards the horizon.

He falls asleep as water droplets begin to tap at his window.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late!” Pepper rushes into the lobby, out of breath. She had run into the building with the bag covering her head, both dripping wet.

“Fucking finally,” Trophy mutters, snatching the bag from her. “Hey Soap, catch.”

“What?”

The grocery bag hits Soap square in the face.

Bystanders  _ ooo _ ing and wincing echo across the room. Soap is able to fumble the bag into her arms, and—after regaining her composure—glares at the asshole quarterback. The asshole quarterback in question, Trophy, shrugs. Soap groans.

“Was the commute alright?” She looks over her shoulder to the still adrenaline-filled Pepper. “I know you’re not the biggest fan of rain, and apparently it started coming down hard in the city.”

Pepper scoffs, suddenly burningly self-conscious. Did she look that bad? “What makes you think that, huh?”

“I, uh,” Soap glances towards the television, “saw it on the weather forecast?”

She blushes harder. “Oh.”

“Also, you look terrible,” Cheesy pipes up, appearing behind Soap. He’s kicked in the ankle, causing him to yelp. However, Soap puts a reassuring smile on her face—towards Pepper, of course.

“Salt’s trying to follow OJ into his room like a lost puppy, so you have a good hour or so to run into y’all’s bathroom and clean yourself up before she sees you.”

Pepper nods, rubbing her arms. All of a sudden, she feels cold. Very cold.

“You need a towel or anything?” Cheesy says.

“I’m fine, I,” Pepper clears her throat, “thanks for the heads up, Soap.”

Cheesy and Soap glance at each other, and once they turn to Pepper the latter questions; “you sure? We don’t need more people with a  _ condishawn _ , y’know.”

Without a word, she brushes past the two, speed-walking towards the staircase.

They shrug.

“So  _ that _ was awkward as hell,” Trophy pipes up from across the room. “Anyways, Tissues probably fell asleep, so we’ve got… what, 3, 4 hours until he wakes up? Let’s get moving, people.”

“Oh, right,” Soap says.

The three round themselves into the kitchen, where everyone else—Pickle, Yin-yang, Cherries,  _ Knife _ (Trophy groans at that)—are waiting. On the dining room table sits the food and snacks that everyone had helped prepare before. Soap hands Cheesy the bag and grabs her apron, putting it on.

“Eugh, wet,” Cheesy mumbles. “I hate rainy days.”

Soap shrugs. “I don’t know, I kinda like ‘em. Feels clean, nostalgic.”

“Of course you’d say nostalgic.”

Party preparations for Tissue’s “get better” day proceed as planned, without a hitch. Pepper finishes cleaning herself up at the moment Salt returns to their shared room. OJ and Paper are able to continue their romcom viewing uninterrupted.

The rain drums on and on.


End file.
